


I am Never Afraid to Love

by poptod



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: Ancient History, Canonical Character Death, Emotions, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Immortal Reader, Immortality, M/M, Romance, Romantic Gestures, True Love, gender neutral reader but leaning male, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: You were born long ago, in Athens, in the year 957 BC, as it would later be called. On your 25th birthday you realized you had a gift from the Gods. When your best friend died, you realized you had a curse. When you met a man with sparkling dark eyes, a happy talent for bringing out the best in you, and a remarkable felicity of romantic expression, you saw your blessing once more. Not all things are to last.





	I am Never Afraid to Love

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this at midnight, high off pain medication. I'm sorry, bon appetite.

You were normal when you were first born. A small child, coming out of a normal, loving mother’s womb with a normal father, off away fighting Greek battles. Normal for the time, living in the height of Athens.

You were also normal in the aspect of your personality. All around a good person, a few slaves that you treated favorably well, and eager to please. Whether if it was to join battle or sit at home tending to children, you could do it. Perhaps that was something special about you, how flexible you were in personality terms. You would find out, after around your 25th birthday, that this trait would come in handy for a _long_ time.

It was on your 25th birthday that things became a little confusing. Your mother and father now long dead, you celebrated your birth by leaving flowers at their graves, and celebrating both yours and their lives at a local **1** *kapeleia with some friends. Near everyone had commented, as you grew older, you had not aged a day since turning 21. You took their comments originally with a grain of salt, thinking them humorous and more to be thought of as compliments than anything. After all your friends had gone home, one stayed. Timon, who was a good friend for a long time, walked you home before returning to his own residence.

As you reached the door, he clapped you lightly on the shoulder. A friendly display, smiling at you tenderly, before fixing you with a confused and focused look.

“You know, it is quite odd,” he had said, his eyes scanning every facial features you had. “Truly, you have not aged a day from your 21st birthday. Perhaps you have a gift from the Gods,” he ended, before patting your shoulder again, and stumbling off into the night.

You had mulled over his thoughts for the next few days, and thought of a... ah, well a rather dangerous way to test his theory.

It was possible that you got it wrong. Maybe the gift was youth, not immortality, but you had a blatant disregard for your own health (which all your friends had as well, you remembered diving into an ocean from a far length) so the test continued.

You passed with flying colors. Stabbing yourself wasn’t the most pleasant experience, but it certainly worked because after fainting from pain, you woke up to a clean stomach. The area you had punctured, above your stomach and around your lungs showed no marks. No scarring, no bleeding, the blood on the floor had even gone.

It truly was a gift from the Gods, but you did not speak a word of it to anyone.

When Timon and his wife, who had become a good friend of yours died, you realized the gift was not at all what it seemed. You had also learned that you had to distance yourself, your ‘gift’ blatantly obvious to anyone who knew you for more than twenty years. You had heard the news of Timon dying not by being with him. No, you were in Athmonia, which wasn’t far from Athens, playing cards with a shady group of people. You found out, visiting Athens about ten years later, and seeing his grave.

Cursed by the Gods, you renamed your state.

Time passed hard and slow. You never did follow your own orders to stay away from people. In fact, you did just as good as the exact opposite, never learning your lesson, loving over years and years, hundreds of people you had known were the one, for at least one hundred years. Your secret spilled out to each of your partners, some of them considered sinful for the time. Each time they took it well, knowing that you would stay with them even as they grew old and weary, having it done every time for the hundreds of years fallen behind you.

It was around 26 AD that you found yourself beside your bed, kneeled, hands pressed together as you prayed to old Gods that were so close to being forgotten. You continued praying, hoping for someone to finally listen, begging to be rid of the curse.

“My love, are you alright?” He spoke from behind you, two fingers touching your left shoulders. You turned around, hands falling into your lap.

“Yes, why?”

“You’re crying,” he said, kneeling down beside you. You touched your cheek lightly, feeling it wet. You swallowed thickly.

“I love you Octavius,” you whispered weakly, not meeting his eye.

“I know, and I you. And you will love again,” he lifted your chin with his fingers, making you meet his blue eyes. Blue eyes were coming into these parts, and while rare, they were incredibly fascinating.

“And again and again,” you said, eyes falling to the floor again.

“But for now, you love me, and that is all I need to continue living.”

He died twenty years later, a sickness that would later be referred to as ‘the common cold.’

You travelled far after that. Very far north, making your way to Germanic areas. You boarded a small boat, with no rations, no water, hoping perhaps to end your suffering in the ocean. You knew the mission to be fruitless, but maybe you’d come back to a new world. Where people like you would be accepted.

Or maybe you were the only one.

You never knew.

However, setting sail from ‘Europe,’ you landed in a small place referred to as ‘England,’ they called it. You wondered to yourself how long that name would last. Of course, all your questions had to be asked and answered discreetly so as to not draw suspicion, so your conversation went a lot like this:

“Wonderful place, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, it really is beautiful here in, uh… In.. um…”

“… England?”

“Yes!”

You decided you’d never talk to that man again.

It was a good country for the views, you supposed, but it was… messy. Unclean, swarming with human waste and rats. You had all around a bad feeling about continuing to live in large establishments considering how filthy everything was, so you ventured out further into country. It got colder and colder, and considering it was already freezing for you beforehand, it was overall miserable. You were beginning to regret coming to this tiny little island.

It was a few months after wandering further into country that you found the most beautiful sight you’d ever seen - cascading waterfalls overlooking the ocean, towering cliffs and mountains lined with lichen and age old trees. Logically you knew trees weren’t animate, and could not think, but you couldn’t stop yourself feeling a kinship with them, imagining the faeries that must’ve lived in their skin and leaves.

You found a rather nice cave, living off the land for a few years.

You met a woman in that time. She was bedraggled, dirty, and smelled loathsome. Much like an upcoming city named London, and she was exactly what you were avoiding, and exactly what you needed.

She was kind, warm, and when she washed up she was truly a beauty. You had no new clothes to offer her, so she stayed in a puffy long dress, a long silken shawl over her shoulders and a rundown hat that must’ve been beautiful in its’ glory.

Her name was Adelaide, but she would not give you her last name. You did not argue with her, saying that knowing true or false names did not matter, only the actions taking current precedent.

“Is it wrong that I love you?” Adelaide had said, two years after meeting you in the land you called your own. You were washing clothes off in a bucket of fresh water, your back turned to her. Despite this, you could imagine her face - worried, uncertain, and anxious.

“It is not at all wrong. I have known many who love me, and I them,” you replied, turning to her. “You are lucky that I love you as you I,” you stood, lifting her face by the chin as Octavius had done to you so long ago, and you placed a kiss softer than the souls of the time old trees above you.

When you released her from the kiss two seconds later, she gazed at you with eyes filled with an entirely new emotion.

“Men and women have loved me,” you told her quietly. “None a beautiful as you. You sculpt the land with your voice, and fill the sky with your eyes. I bow before you.”

“You are older than this land, are you not?” She said quietly, making a very accurate guess.

“I am older than your country. I am older than your God,” you told her. You had heard of this Jesus in your travels, his religion and teachings taking over the land that you walked. He seemed like a terrible person, but when you read the Bible, the oldest one you could with no translations, you wished you could have met him. He seemed a decent fellow, far ahead of his time.

“It is not wrong that I love that which will outlive me?”

“Do you not love the ocean, or the clouds that fill the sky? What of the stars that paint your eyes when you gaze upon the night and its’ beauty? Those will outlast you, as I will, but that does not make the love you feel for it, or its’ love for you, any weaker,” you told her. She kissed you again.

She died an old woman, healthy and happy, giving you one last request that she be buried at sea.

You obeyed her request, and left the land of Adelaide.

London was not much more developed, so you left south, staying away from the ocean.

It was slightly cleaner in this area of the country, and you enjoyed it. Green fields stretched forever, buildings littering the area, hedges obscuring the roads from high sight. You stood atop a hill, taking a deep breath, filling your heart with happy, sweet air.

You lived on the outskirts of that town for a good while, masquerading as your own child, and then your child’s child, and your child’s child’s child. You met no one new, feeling rather bedraggled yourself after your recent romantic adventure.

It didn’t feel like an adventure.

You left the small town after a while, tired of its’ views. You had passed the time recording generations of the town. You found the mayor, and informed him about your leaving. He was sad to have a family that had stayed so long leave, but you made up for it by handing him the various family names, all connected to the people you had met so long ago. He shook your hand, giving you the brightest smile, and you left.

You wandered the country for hundreds of years. Tales of you were spoken, but you did not match the description the myths now told. They spoke of a messy man, with long, tangled hair. Barefooted, with minimal clothing, carrying a sack over his shoulder.

You wore your hair neat and kempt, in a short low ponytail (as it was fashionable for the time). You certainly had shoes, and you dressed rather lavishly considering you didn’t have money. And you only took a well made, brown leather satchel with you on your journeys.

When you introduced yourself, you didn’t use your old name from Greece, and you didn’t use your old English names, being Optata and August respectively. After all, it was the 1400’s, and that called for a more suitable name. You chose Aunel, which was rather popular in Scotland at the time. Even with all the years ahead of you, the present still felt futuristic. Even if you knew that you might even make it to a time where you walked among the stars you admired with so many lovers.

You had been exploring the countryside for quite a while, still wandering, when a mischievous boy caught your eye. He must’ve been around nine or ten years old, and he was taunting an old man who looked rather distraught about the whole situation.

“Boy,” you intervened, standing between him and the old man, your arms crossed.

“What, you **2** *gobermouch?”

“Leave this man alone,” you ordered him, prepared to do anything to make sure he got his due.

“Why should I?” He sneered, crossing his arms and mocking you. You puffed up your chest, grabbed him by the corner of his ear, and dragged him away.

“If you don’t tell me where you live, I shall take you to the mayor,” you told him, dragging him closer to the center of town.

“No, no, wait! I will tell, I will! I live down that way,” he pointed down the street, and you took him that way, still grabbing his ears. He winced as he continued giving directions, and you took him to the front door of a nice looking place made of adobe.

You knocked upon the door, and opened to a surprisingly healthy looking woman.

“Your son was tormenting a kind old man,” you told her off the bat, shoving the son into the folds of her skirt.

“Crey! Not good,” she berated him, and you turned, leaving him to deal with his angered mother.

A few days later, after having eaten at every restaurant in town and wandering in to all the shops (there really weren’t that many), you stood on the outskirts of town, surrounded by tall trees that shaded you from a warm and pleasant sun. A nice wind blew, and you took your time enjoying it. You wandered further into the small little piece of heaven, finding a small well. You thought it was funny really, having a well so far away from a town.

“Hey, gobermouch,” a high pitched voice said from behind you, with as much vindication as his tiny little body could hold. It was the boy from before, and you turned, unimpressed.

“Crey,” you replied simply, easily remembering his name. He came up to you, letting you trust him for a few short seconds, before shoving you into the well, sending you tumbling down.

You hit your head multiple times, scrapes and scratches, pooling blood quickly disappearing by the time you hit the bottom. It was a basically empty well, the water not coming up further than your toes. You guessed that was why it was so far away from town.

“They’re gonna find yer’ bones in a th—oosand years, gobermouch!” He turned, and what little light came into the well, you relished. You guessed someone had to come along in a few years and realize there was a human stuck in the well.

Humans abilities to ignore the obvious and assume the more fantastical always surprised you. The first person to find you, a small girl, did not believe that you were a human. She believed you to be a spirit of good wishes, and she tossed in a copper coin, asking for her wish to come true. It hit your head. Feeling a little sad for her, you replied, “your wish is granted,” which was the wrong thing to say.

For the next few hundred years, you couldn’t keep track, you rotted away in the well. Your clothes damp and clinging to you, your leather satchel long worn away, the heels of your shoes nearly fully gone. People came, yes, but they came for wishes. They asked you to grant them a wish, and sometimes you’d beg for them to get you out. Other times you said, “your wish is granted.” Other times you were silent, in a deep sleep to pass the time. No one ever believed you were a human.

“Hello, I’ve heard you’re magic,” a boy said. He had a posh voice, and while you didn’t know how much time had passed, you knew it had to have been at least a hundred years since you’d last seen someone.

“I am magic,” you replied, desperate for human contact. How long had it been since you’d felt the sun, or the touch of another human?

You longed for Octavius. For Adelaide. Even for Timon. Your heart ached as you thought of them, of the warm sun beating upon darkened skin. You were white as clouds now, and you shamefully hid your skin.

“May I ask you for a wish?” The boy asked. You couldn’t see him, but he gave off a tiny silhouette against the light of the day.

“Only if you do not throw a coin on me,” you answered.

“Wait, are you a person down there?” You could see him lean in further.

“… Yes,” you answered hesitantly. He couldn’t know your secret. Children were odd. Either they’d keep a secret the rest of their lives, they’d forget about it, or they’d tell every person they knew, and you couldn’t risk that.

“I’ll get you out, I swear!”

He left. To grab something to get you, you assumed. He came back two days later (you kept track this time) and he had a long rope with him, which he secured to the ground outside.

“Climb up it!” He told you, and you obeyed, making your way up, your heart beating intensely against your bones as you felt the sun against you, the warmth of spring air, and _colours_.

You’d never thought about colours, but seeing them again, the infinite shades of greens, blues, yellows of flowers dotting the hillside, you missed them dearly.

“You have saved my life young one, I must repay you,” you said, kneeling in front of him, bowing your head in respect. It was only fair. Then again, maybe times had changed - maybe you didn’t sacrifice your life for those who had saved you. Otherwise, he seemed like a very trustworthy boy, with a kind posture and a sweet composition. Maybe you could be free with your secret.

“It’s alright. Just make sure my wish comes true,” he said, shrugging.

“And what is that, young one?”

“I want to spread music and happiness to all I meet,” he said, looking hopeful. You truly got a good look at him now. He had dark, slicked back hair, rather large white teeth (that was new; clean teeth), and dreamers eyes - you could tell that despite your nonexistence of wish granting powers, he would get anything he wanted.

“It is granted. It will take a stronger stance when you grow older, young one,” you told him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Why do you talk so weird?”

“I am old, I suppose. Would you care to teach me the ways of today? I have been stuck in that well for far too long. It feels good to know the sun still shines.”

“Sure. My names’ Farrokh,” he told you.

“My name is… (Y/N),” you settled on, thinking it to be modern enough from the 1400’s to be used now. He gave you an odd look, but continued on anyways.

He guided you down to the town from before, now much larger. Large, shining beetles traveled fast down the roads, colored all different colors, though most commonly black. They emitted a sort of smoke, and rolled on black wheels.

“Those are cars if you didn’t know,” he said, noticing your interest. “What time did you end up in that well anyways?”

“You still count time from Jesus Christs’ birth, correct?” You asked him. He confirmed.

“I came to be in that well around the beginning of the 1400’s, the 15th century, otherwise referred to. A young boy such as yourself, but much less kind to look upon, cursed me to live there forever. He did not know of my ailment of immortality however, saying what I believe was, ‘they’re going to find your bones in a thousand years.’”

“I think a lot has happened since then. I didn’t really think about anything before the 1900’s being a real time,” he said, shambling a bit with a friendly composure as he led you down the hill and into town.

“Tell me of it, Farrokh.”

“We went to the moon.”

_You were in the time where you could walk among stars._

“We walk among stars, now?” You asked excitedly, furling and unfurling your hands in anxious excitement.

“Well, I think they sent up a spaceship.”

You nodded. Ships could survive the ocean, they could probably survive the stars.

“Farrokh, I must request something of you,” you began, stopping him and kneeling to be eye to eye with him. He nodded, and you continued.

“Do not tell any of my secret. It is a burden I must carry, and I told you because I trust you. Was that an unwise decision?”

Hesitantly, he shook his head. He probably didn’t fully understand what you said, but you decided that it was good enough.

“Good. You are a good boy, Farrokh. You will make a great man. I must take my leave now. Enjoy your life as much as you can, young one.”

It was odd, trying to fit in again. For the first few months, you spent all your time in a library. Free books, able to be read anytime anyone wanted was a new thought to you, not seen since your time in Greece. There were books about that too, and the pages were soft against your touch, the edges sharp and cutting. It thrilled and instilled curiosity within you, and within the months of reading and catching up on history, you felt rather good.

You had bought better clothes, something called jeans, and a button down shirt that you thought looked rather good. You travelled in the air, in a large metal tube called an airplane, to do some exploring of Europe.

It was a saddening experience to see the old Roman places all broken down, the once grand coliseum in ruins. The plans and schematics they’d drawn to make up for all the erosion were mostly incorrect, but they looked fun anyways. However, it was the exact opposite of saddening to see the same restaurant from thousands of years ago still standing.

“How old is this restaurant?” You asked the man who showed you a table, and he relayed the history. It had been here when you were, yes, but it was turned into a storage area, then various changes were made to it until its’ history was discovered. Out of respect for the past they apparently changed it back into a restaurant. You ordered a ‘pizza,’ which you enjoyed deeply. Taste and scent were the two senses you relished after getting out of the well. Your adventures throughout Europe continued, visiting old homes that you’d once seen, great buildings and architects that were once your reality. You smiled, a bit of a smirk to yourself as you heard a tourist guide explain the ruins of the city. Partially incorrect, mostly correct. They did a rather good job of rediscovering the history that they’d forgotten.

You lost track of the years, but you travelled back to England, deciding to give London a chance. It was… definitely more clean. More Scottish, and apparently you’d completely skipped the African Enslavement debacle, which you were thankful for. You remembered your slaves when reading the textbook, but your slaves were well treated. It was even recorded that your slaves were well treated compared to most other places. You felt a little proud, but you did realize later that it was a weird thing to be proud about. People were more open, accepting, though there were still changes to be made. You could now actually tell people your sexuality, though you might be killed for it. When you were in the well, you could be ‘homosexual,’ (as they called it) as long as no one figured out. Well they could figure it out, but it was a weird thing.

During your adventures through London, you visited many music concerts. The new music of the time was quite fascinating - apparently you’d just skipped over the biggest musical change of the time, which was a band called the Beatles. You had listened to some of their music, and it was certainly… different. You listened to the music that was before it, and you could see where the change was, but that music was also… different.

Maybe you just missed your music.

Nonetheless, you appreciated the music, going to concert halls for what they called classic music, and to a few rock concerts from up and coming artists.

A band called Queen caught your interest, their music new and refreshing, a mix of the newest music of the time and the music you adored from your old days. Rock and opera, mixed together, and it _worked_. You wanted to compliment the four men yourself, so you waited until the concert was over, and went backstage. It was easy to get in, various people who had already performed or were about to muddled about in the hallways.

You finally reached their car, a van, where four of them sat outside, two of them smoking and the other discussing something quietly.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to congratulate you,” you said. You weren’t used to the language quite yet, though you would be in a good fifty years. The four of them turned to you, and a brunet with dark hair flowing to his shoulders began coughing, the cigarette in his fingers going limp as he went into a fit.

“Oi, Fred you alright?” A blond asked, standing up from his position in the back end f the open van.

“(Y/N)?!”

Your eyes widened. People didn’t recognize you. That simply didn’t happen. Your face wasn’t that memorable. People did _not_ remember you. Who did you meet? Who was this? Your mind went into a frenzy, panicking, thinking of scientist performing painful procedures on you, being locked up in a room much like the well you spent so long in.

“I - I do not know you,” you said quickly, raising your hands up defensively.

“Oh you _do_ ,” Fred, as his name was apparently was, waved your comment off easily. “It’s me, Farrokh? You met me as a child. You were stuck in the well? I got you out,” he said, trying to jog your memory.

Of course. How could you forget him.

“Sir, I am sorry I didn’t recognize you. I do still owe you a debt,” you said, deciding that calling him Sir would fit more than Master. There had been multiple people in the past calling you master because you’d saved their lives.

“Come off that (Y/N), sit with us. What were you saying?” He pushed you down to sit in the blond’s spot, who looked irritated but went with it.

“I - I was saying that your music is truly revolutionary. It combines new and old music, it’s traditional and very, um, out there,” you said, gingerly trying out new lingo.

“Well, I suppose that wish you granted me really did come true then,” Fred laughed.

“Freddie? Gonna introduce us?” The man sitting beside you, his hair long and curly looked expectantly at ‘Freddie,’ his hand opened and gesturing to him.

“Oh, yes! This is (Y/N), I-“ he looked at you, remembering his promise to keep your secret.

“Freddie found me in a well when he was a boy. I told him my truth and he accepted it,” you interrupted him, cryptically telling them that you weren’t what you seemed. They looked between you and Freddie, still confused. One of them motioned for you to continue, as if you had more to say.

“If I told you, you would not believe me. When you have known me over 2 3*dekas, you will come to terms and take my word,” you said sagely, nodding your head a bit.

“Right. Well I’m Brian, this is Roger, and uh, Deaky. You know Freddie,” the man with long curly hair, Brian, introduced the rest of his group, gesturing to himself, then the blond, followed by a rather friendly looking man and then Freddie. You would’ve questioned him about his name change from Farrokh, but you had changed your name many times, so there was no judgement.

The five of you spoke for a while, you trying to stay out of the conversation. You found that observing people of the time conversing, it was easier to pick up on modern language. Easier than attempting to mimic it yourself - you sounded like an old person trying to be ‘hip.’

The evening ended with Freddie inviting you to his place for the evening, after realizing that you probably didn’t have a house from various clues you left such as “no, I’ve been wandering the whole of Europe,” in response to, “so, you live in London?”

His home was apparently shared with Roger, a rented apartment that didn’t come cheap. Roger however, had decided to leave you alone, and quickly ‘scored’ himself a ‘lay’ for the night, as he had put it.

“It is nice,” you commented, looking around the area. The furniture and utilities were cheap - you could’ve made them better alone in the wilderness. Stronger, harder to break.

“It’s expensive is what it is,” Freddie said, lying down on the couch. You sat in a chair near the couch, and it wan’t that comfortable. “How do you manage it?” He turned his head to look at you, the angle crooked and looking painful.

“Manage what?”

“Traveling to all those places. You don’t have a job. Hell, you don’t even have a house, how do you manage it?”

“You have to pay to travel?” You asked. That was news to you. You had sort of just… walked into the airport, gone through a few detours of misguided directions, found yourself at a gate boarding to Italy, and got on. No one asked you a thing.

“Yes! Of course, do you mean no one stopped you to show a ticket?”

You explained what happened. He seemed shocked, but not surprised.

“Perhaps you’ve got the gift of luck along with immortality,” he laughed, leaning back comfortably into the uncomfortable looking couch.

“You are quite good to me, y- Freddie, but I mustn’t intrude. I can manage on my own,” you said, attempting to excuse yourself. You weren’t prepared to settle down and grow old again.

“Please stay,” Freddie said, immediately sitting up and pulling gently on your sleeve. You looked down at him, fully surveying his face.

He was the epitome of beauty, at least in your time, and you wondered how something so beautiful could exist. Not to be dramatic or cliche, as you’d read this quite a bit, but he looked sculpted by Gods. Who else could make a body that retained so much beauty and passion in one look? Sharp cheekbones framed with dark hair truly made the ‘look.’

“Do you have a reason for me to stay?” You said, instead of outright saying yes or no.

“Does pure emotion mean anything to you?” His eyes seemed to glitter with apprehension and excitement.

“It means everything.”

You stayed with him that night, and he showed you true wonders of television and how story telling progressed. He told you a rundown version of how the camera, and then how film got invented, how videos went from black and white, soundless images to having music and speech bounce from speakers around the room, to forming fully colored images of walking people, nearly like magic.

“Rather interesting, right?” He said, showing you a colored, sounded film.

“Rather,” you replied quietly, mystified by the moving figures on the screen.

“Do you sleep?” Freddie asked after a few minutes of you intently watching the movie.

“Yes, I do,” you answered.

“Come sleep with me,” he requested, his voice apprehensive and unsure. You nodded. It was common in your time to sleep with friends. Later on it became further alright to have sex with said friends, though you rarely participated in that activity. Most of your friends were not attractive in a way you found appealing.

Freddie lent you a hand and you took it, helping you stand up. You stood face to face with him now, the glow of the television just barely seeping away into nothing. You studied him for a moment, the both of you unmoving, barely centimeters away from each other.

“You know you look quite good for someone hundreds of years old,” Freddie said, breaking the silence. You smiled a bit, nearing a laugh but holding it down.

“Thousands, my darling. Thousands,” you told him quietly, pressing your forehead on his. You could feel him shudder, taking a deep breath.

“I - I’m not sure what was okay in your time,” he paused, looking at you directly before averting his gaze to the floor, “but two men… shouldn’t touch each other like this.”

You thought back to Adelaide, and her profession that she felt ashamed to love you. You repeated what you said to her, to Freddie.

“Men and women have loved me,” you began, changing your internal script as you went. “No love I have ever felt has been shameful, or a sin.” He looked uncertain. You held your hand to his cheek, making him look at you, his face red with embarrassment. “No love has ever been a sin,” you repeated to him. He nodded, grabbing your hand on his cheek in his, stroking it with his thumb.

“Touch is human, and healthy. No touch is sin, whether it is upon yourself or shared with others. It was once worshipped as heavenly, and as a great writer of a previous generation said, ‘The reduction of the universe to only one being, the dilatation of only one being unto god, this is love,’ and I believe that to be my current sentiment.”

He faced you with confusion, so you attempted at putting the quote in simpler words.

“To love is to see the face of God.”

“You’ll… come to bed with me, then?” He asked, quiet and timid. You nodded once more, letting him take your hand and lead you towards a small bedroom. The bed was easy to sink into, and more comfortable than your previous position in the chair.

“Uh, (Y/N), we have specific clothes for sleeping,” Freddie informed you, digging into his small closet.

“Ah, sounds comfortable,” you said, getting up and leaning over his shoulder.

“That’s what it’s meant to be,” he laughed, handing you a pair of soft pants and a button down shirt. You smiled at him, feeling your whole body warm in the delight of his smile. You were going to comment on it, but he turned back around, and you decided against it. Quickly undressing, you redressed in Freddie’s given clothes, feeling the smoothness against your skin to be a pleasurable contrast from your old clothes.

“You, um, look rather nice,” Freddie commented quietly, looking down as he set his clothes on the bed.

“Thank you, Freddie,” you said, matching his tone and volume. He swallowed thickly, and sat down, undressing himself.

“Is it custom to undress while sitting?”

“Uh, no, but I thought since I don’t really have another place to dress,” he said, grunting a bit as he struggled with his pants.

“I can leave the room,” you said, leaving the room promptly after. You returned two minutes later, seeing Freddie dressed in a bathrobe and pants.

“I don’t have any more shirts,” he mumbled, pulling the robe tightly around himself. You rolled your shoulders back, stepping closer to him, then onto the bed, kneeling on it so as to not be too tall.

You set your hands on his chest, attempting to gain his trust. He paused, before relaxing a little bit. You felt his heart hammer away, pounding blood harshly through his veins. You smiled a little at him, a gentle and reassuring smile, curling your fingers around the end of the bathrobe, pulling it very slowly off his shoulders.

He was nice to look at, incredibly so. You tried your best not to stare too much, keeping your eyes fixated on his, still breathing steady. The robe fell to the ground, and he held his arms, looking embarrassed. You bent back slightly, taking off your shirt, and handing it to him. Reluctantly, he put it on, looking ready to protest.

“I can assure you I have no problems with nudity. I grew up in Greece and Pompeii,” you said, knowing that the culture of your home was known. “And I am accustomed to the cold. You need not worry for me,” you said, now grabbing his shirt and gently pulling him down to the bed. He seemed awestruck, unmoving, obeying what you made him do.

“How ceaseless your comfort to me is,” he said quietly, his hand on your waist as he sat fully on the bed. You smiled fully at him, happy to hear a phrase in a language you fully understood. The two of you stayed like that for a moment or two, simply taking in the moment. The revelation that yes, the other cared for the other, and yes, given time, these emotions would grow much, much deeper.

“Fall asleep in my arms, will you?” You asked, your voice a whisper. You leaned in a little closer, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“As long as you fall asleep in mine,” he replied, pulling back, and getting underneath the bed covers. You followed suit, and he wrapped his arms around your waist when you were fully situated, his head pressed against your chest. Gently, you set your arms around his shoulders, squeezing him gently. He couldn’t be close enough.

You did not kiss for a long time. Over the period of time spanning between your first night spent together and your first kiss, you became fully accustomed to life in London. You’d gotten to know Roger, Brian, and ‘Deaky’ well, and considered them all good friends. From the start you knew the mortal loss of them would follow you for eons until you had naught the memory of where you were from, clouded by years of experiencing life and development.

Freddie showed you around London, to his favorite restaurants and shops, as well as a nice park in central London. You watched a fair amount of shows, cheering him on as he performed, as well as watching classical shows. Freddie offered to pay, but you simply walked past the ticket guards, taking him along with you. He called it, ‘the cheap luck trick.’

You found yourselves, every night sitting in Freddie’s room, lying on his bed and simply talking. Recently you had realized just how long you’d been without human touch, and you craved it, holding his hand whenever you possibly could. He never kissed you though, and you assumed it was a product of his time.

He assumed the same of you.

It wasn’t until another night, just like the rest, that the issue was resolved. The two of you both lay upon his bed, your fingers half over his, and him asking you questions about the past.

“Did you ever visit Egypt?” He asked you.

“It wasn’t called Egypt when I was there,” you answered.

“Did you watch Pompeii get buried?”

“I wasn’t there at all. I did live there a frightening close time to when it did though.”

“Is the food better now, or was it better then?”

“It’s certainly more diverse now, though English food is much the same.”

He was quiet for a little bit, before continuing with a more sensitive question.

“Tell me about the people you’ve loved.”

You remembered, most clearly, Timon.

“I loved first a man. He was a brother to me, a friend for all times. I am sad to say that I was not with him when he died. I could not be,” you said, your tone much more serious than it had been.

“I had a few loves here and there. Not many stayed for long, more than ten years. I believed they would not have taken my secret well. The first person to love me as a husband loves a wife, was Octavius. He was a Greek soldier, as was I to be his lover. He was kind, and strong. He died too soon, from disease that is now a fleeting thing. A common cold.”

“That is… unfortunate,” Freddie said meekly. You nodded in agreement.

“The next truly important person who has loved me as I love them, was Adelaide,” you continued. Truly in all your travels, Adelaide and Octavius were the most important. Accepting, kind people that knew your truth and stayed beside you.

“A woman?”

“Yes. She was beautiful and quiet, I knew her during my days living among the wild. I believe near where you refer to the land as Scotland, though I can’t be sure. I buried her myself when she died of old age.”

Freddie was quiet again.

“What about me?” He asked, turning to face you.

“The future holds unknown wonders and terrors. I can never say for sure-“

“On what you feel right now, off pure intuition, how do you want my story with you to end?” He sat up and you followed, him grabbing your hands and pressing them close to his chest. He looked at you with such eagerness and curiosity, eyes wide with adoration that for the first time in a long time, you blushed.

“I marry you,” you said simply, hoping that would suffice in telling him all he needed to know.

“Are you sure you want me?” He looked at the bed, then back up at you, insecurity laced into his face.

“I have never met a man more perfectly beautiful than you. I will never meet one more passionate and kind, sweet and loving than you,” you assured him, taking your hand from his grasp to stroke the side of his face.

“I really wonder how you can say that about me when I feel that for you,” he pursed his lips as he often did, not meeting your eyes.

“Freddie, my love, if it’s not too much trouble to you,” he looked up at you, and you grew nervous. “I would like to kiss you,” you finished quietly, lost in his darkened eyes.

“You need not ask,” he said, leaning forward and without hesitation, pressing his lips against yours. You put a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper and humming with delight as his hands travelled from your neck, to your shoulders, and down to your waist and hips. He kept them at your hips, practically sitting in your lap as you tugged on his hair ever so slightly, continuing to kiss him.

“Have you ever french kissed, my darling?” He pulled away just slightly, still mumbling his words against your lips. You shook your head no. Sex wasn’t really a thing you did for pleasure when you were last in the world, and that’s usually when french kisses took place. It was really only for procreation and for land rights.

“Most likely not as you know it,” you answered, near desperate to feel him against you once more.

“It’s quite nice, I’ll teach you,” he said quickly, leaning in again and once more kissing you. You felt a tongue slide against your lips, and you instinctively opened them, hoping that was the right thing to do. It apparently was, as Freddie stuck his tongue into your now opened mouth.

It was odd, and new, but not overall unpleasant. It was however, incredibly intimate, and just at the thought of that, you let out a desperate mix between a hum and a moan against his lips.

“’S good?” He asked, pulling away from you again.

“Yes,” you sighed a little, pressing your face into his cheek, taking a deep breath. You kept your arms around his waist, holding him close to you.

“Apple of my pie,” you said, remember the phrase from someone off the street. He had been talking about his wife, so you assumed it to be a romantic phrase.

You might’ve been wrong, because Freddie held back a rather strong laugh.

“Darling, what did you just say?” You could feel his breath on your ear, but what you felt most keenly was shame.

“Apple of my pie,” you repeated, quieter.

“Oh my love, it’s apple of my eye,” he laughed, pulling you away so he could fully look at you. You admired his smile, his happiness, despite the fact that it was at your detriment.

“That makes no sense,” you defended yourself.

“It would if I gave you some history books. Do you know what it means?”

You shrugged. Maybe you did? It was mostly context clues.

“It means ‘that which I hold above all else,” he explained, his laughing fading into a comforting and pleasant smile.

“That which I hold above all else,” you repeated, once again stroking his cheek with your hand. He melted into your touch, head following your hand and attempting to sink deeper into your affections.

“Apple of my pie,” Freddie said, proceeding to laugh. You hit him lightly, but laughed as well, and the night ended with the two of you falling asleep together once more.

The next morning, Freddie suggested that the two of you get an apartment, away from Roger. Most likely you wouldn’t have to pay for it anyway, considering the moment you really moved in… bills just stopped coming. Lights continued working, plumbing carried on, heat didn’t waver, but there was no pay for it. Roger insisted that they save the money they weren’t spending on rent just in case the police found out they hadn’t been paying bills. You assured him they wouldn’t but admired the fact that he kept to his word.

Queen got big. _Really_ big. Freddie was to go on tour in America, and you begged to come with him. You had a short time with him, and you wanted to spend as much as you could with him, absorb all that he was before he was no more. He spent a while weighing the costs, seeing if they could even afford to take you along, but he managed it.

America was very different. You stood out greatly with your developed British accent, and the ‘thick way’ you spoke, according to Roger. The trip was delightful, but stressful, and after the long adventure you were ready to be back home. It was nice to be in a safe, warm, and secure spot with someone you loved.

Octavius had never been secure. The war led the two of you in circles around the land, never having a place to call home for more than a month at most. Adelaide was always cold unless a fire was made, the ocean spritz doing a good and fair job of keeping you quite chilly. But it was safer than Octavius.

Freddie was better than either of them. You admired him in a way you hadn’t any of the others, watching him as he moved across a stage, a glittering beacon of confidence and love. He seemed to drag with him a wake of happiness and fortitude, an air of subtle pride and self love. Dressing most extravagantly, he danced when he moved, and sung God’s tale when he spoke, the ruler of the land of lovers.

You truly did love him.

He asked you one day, settled on the couch, how you’d feel if he grew a mustache, and cut his hair off. You said that you didn’t mind, that it wasn’t your choice to make, and anything he did, you would be happy with. He sat up, grabbed your shoulders, and made you face him, repeating that he cared about what _you_ thought. You had a mental stammer, thinking of what to say.

“I think you will look handsome, as you do now,” you responded simply after gathering your thoughts. He leaned in, kissing you on the forehead, before resuming his previous position. Leaned against you with terrible posture, reading a book.

He decided to go with it. He looked different, but he looked nice. It was often that those things came hand in hand when it came to Freddie. You could see his face more, certainly, and his facial structure did not face detriment from the change. In fact, it was much more pronounced - sharp and clean, and when he first stepped through the door with the new look, you ran your hands through his hair, and kissed him.

He kissed back, as always.

He must’ve felt the need for many life changes, because the two of you got a new house. Large, large enough for each of your cats to have its’ own room, and if desired, for you to have your own room. The living room was decorated with the utmost extravagance, no measure cut and no chance taken. The piano, along with the phone atop it and the vase of flowers (along with other such decorations) was your favorite piece. Freddie would play from it as you sat on the red velvet couch, relaxing in the utmost luxury that you truly didn’t need.

Freddie was all the luxury you needed.

Though apparently, Freddie did not see it that way. He showered you in gifts now that he had the currency to spare, coming home from studio work with random bouquets of flowers, ornate necklaces and watches (once you told him that you missed wearing jewelry).

“You really don’t need to keep buying me all these gifts,” you had said, setting down the third bouquet of the week.

“It is a crime to not surround the most beautiful thing in the world with imitations of its’ beauty,” he replied, holding your waist and swaying you back and forth to music that certainly played in his head. He kissed your cheek and you giggled, kissing him back. “I will give you anything you wish.”

“All I wish is you,” you said shyly, pressing your lips together.

“And you have me. All of me,” he replied quietly, kissing you on the lips.

Later that week, you came out to the rest of the group. Not in the relationship sense, no, they already got that. You hadn’t made very many attempts to hide it. No, you told them about your immortality. They took your word, having now seen you for a good deal now, not aged a single day since your first meeting.

The house was a little hard to manage sometimes, and you were not at all good with cleaning such expensive things.Usually your method of cleaning was dipping something in water and letting the dirt go away, but that was obviously not what the cleaners were doing. You would’ve helped them if you knew how, but you didn’t, so most days you followed Freddie to watch him sing.

He seemed to make every ounce of his life a performance, his movements strong and full of conviction. If he could see you, he’d smile at you, and keep singing all that much stronger. If you were stuck behind glass he couldn’t see through, his bandmates humoured him, and you watched with delight, admiring how well they worked together. Having come in close contact with many other bands, you had to admit that Queen never fought like them. You enjoyed that snippet of their life.

You attended their concerts. Every time you did (which was very often), the seats would be all sold out. Freddie noticed this a few weeks before Live Aid was to happen, and he commented on it to you.

“I think you’re my lucky coin,” he said, looking up at you from his position on the couch.

“It’s the cheap luck trick,” you informed him smiling. He laughed, ending with a sigh, grabbing your hand. You bent by the waist, landing a short and sweet kiss on his lips.

“You’ll attend the concert then? Live Aid?” He didn’t let go of your hand. Before you could answer, he continued, “I think it will be more successful if you come.”

“My love,” you bent down onto your knees, now eye level with him. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

A common phrase, but he softened, knowing that you spoke only truth. He hugged you, and you joined him on the couch, still encompassed in his arms. The two of you stayed like that for a good while, hearts pounding in unison, simply taking in all that the other was.

Live Aid was a huge hit, of course. Freddie attributed that to you, and Roger attributed it to the fact that Queen was playing. He was joking, of course, but it was funny. The celebrations for a successful concert and fundraising carried on through the night and into the day, though you were far too tired to go further than midnight. You wondered where Freddie got his energy, watching him continue to dance and toast at around 1 in the morning.

Life continued on as usual after the concert. Every now and then, a fan or two would come up to Freddie or one of his bandmates, congratulating him on his performance, or asking for a signature. He complied as long as they were quiet, not shouting out his location. He didn’t enjoy being the spotlight when he was just trying to have lunch with his friends, and you.

You noticed a ring of Brian’s finger on such a day, when Freddie was distracted. He was talking to some rather interesting fans, who had caught his attention.

“Brian, why are you wearing that right?” You asked. You remembered banding rings, where if you were to be wed to a person, you would exchange rings. Though it seemed hardly possible that the tradition would continue.

“This?” He looked down at his ring, holding it up. “It’s my wedding ring. Anita has one as well,” he explained.

“The tradition survived?” You asked incredulously. It had always seemed rather supercilious to you. Adelaide never required a ring.

“Um, yeah. It’s just to symbolize love, and eternity,” he told you, putting his hand back down on the table.

 _Eternity_ , you thought to yourself.

You decided to make your own ring for Freddie. You didn’t have money that you had to work for, and it was likely you could simply walk into a jewelers store and take a ring without them noticing, but it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel as though you were truly giving him something that he deserved, which was something full of love and careful thought.

When you got back home with Freddie, the time being well past 16, you looked for a suitable rock in the backyard. He asked what you were doing, standing behind you at one point. You told him that it was a surprise. He laughed, and told you not to keep it a secret much longer. He left after that, leaving you to your own devices.

You finally found one, cracking it open to reveal marvelous swirls of colour - reds and blues streaking through silver and black stone. Immediately you knew that this was the rock to use. Using several tools and a bit of sandpaper, you managed to form it into a ring, the swirls and colours still apparent in the smaller version of it. Now to inscribe it.

You sat in your shared room, listening to Freddie play a song on the piano for some guests that you didn’t know. Twirling the ring in your hands, you thought of different phrases to inscribe.

_To Love is to See the Face of God._

You shivered a bit as you thought of it, so that must’ve been the right phrase. Now inscribed on the inside of the ring, you coated it in a shining liquid, so it was easier to read. The writing was small, but you hoped Freddie would be able to read it.

That evening, when the guests had all gone, you went downstairs. Freddie was still playing the piano, a sweet little tune he must’ve either picked up from a television show, or was simply making up as he went. His talent to do that astounded you at first, but you grew used to his habit.

“I have something for you,” you started off simply, standing next to him. His playing stopped, and suddenly any bit of confidence you had slipped away. You held the ring in your hands held behind your back. You couldn’t find a box for it unfortunately.

“Yes?”

“Um…,” you stopped. You had never thought to ask Brian _how_ exactly it was that he proposed. Maybe it was best to go with how your people proposed? Then again, back when you were first born, marriage was not a sanction between two loving people. It was for land. Perhaps a speech would suffice.

“When I was born, marriage was between two people who wanted to conjoin their land. It was unimportant who you loved, because oftentimes cheating was condoned as long as you produced an heir to your estate. When I came out of that well, I still believed that to be true. I have never once married a person I love. It is… hard, to change my views on marriage. Yet, I cannot stop thinking about how marriage is now represented. Between two people who love each other deeply, and a ring,” your voice was shaky, and you took the ring out from behind your back, “to symbolize eternity. Εκατό καρδιές θα ήταν πολύ λίγες για να κρατήσουν όλη την αγάπη μου για σένα. παρά όλα αυτά, Η αγάπη είναι απλώς αγάπη. Δεν μπορεί να εξηγηθεί ποτέ.”

He was crying. Had you done something wrong?

“Please do not cry my love,” you said quickly, catching his tears with your thumb.

“(Y/N), is this a proposal?” He asked quietly, watching you intently. Hesitantly, you nodded, showing him the ring again.

“Scripted on the inside is a phrase I uttered to you many nights ago. I thought it might be beneficial for you to remember it.”

He read it out loud, then smiled at you. Actually, it was more beaming at you, before engulfing you in the tightest, warmest hug you’d ever felt. You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him tight against your chest.

“Darling, this is ever so sweet, but what in the world did you say to me earlier?”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest.

“It means, well I believe the exact translation is, ‘a hundred hearts would be too few to carry my love for you. After all, love is simply love, and can never be explained.’”

He pulled back from you, still grinning widely. He took the ring from you, still laughing a little bit, letting it set around his fourth finger on his left hand.

“How’d you know my finger size?”

“I didn’t,” you answered truthfully.

“The cheap luck trick,” he laughed, and hugged you once again. He stood, still holding you, and began swaying you, dancing sprightly to music that didn’t sound. You followed his steps, being careful not to make a mistake.

“I must get you a ring as well. The brightest, most radiant one I can find,” he said to you, his breath hot on your ear. You inhaled deeply, taking his scent in, before breathing out his name. He kissed you on the temple.

He stayed true to his word, purchasing a bright ring, ornate with opal decorations built into the body of the ring. You were not allowed to come with him. When he came home, he took you into the living room, getting down on one knee.

“This is how we propose these days,” he said after you tried to kneel down with him, very confused. He took a black velvet box out of his back pocket, opening it for you to reveal the ring. You were speechless. It seemed to glow against the velvet backdrop, Freddie’s smile beaming behind it. Gently, he took your hand, placing the ring on it.

“Never take it off,” he asked you quietly, his tone verging on a beg.

“Never,” you promised. You flashed to the future, the ring old and wearing away, humanity either crumbling or wandering further into the stars, and you thought of it breaking. You would carry it with you in a bag or pocket, you decided, until a proper time came around in which you could get it fixed.

“After humanity has gone from this earth, and English is a dead language, after humanity has long forgotten of this age, I will wear this ring. I will never forget you,” you told him.

“Always so depressing. Enjoy now, will you?” He asked of you, holding you tight against him.

“I always do.”

A few years later, in late April, Freddie came home looking weary. It frightened you to some extent, knowing that he only grew like this when he was tired of his life, or if something was really wrong.

“Freddie? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got it,” he said, looking into your eyes with anguished soul.

“Got what? Freddie,” you cupped his head in your hands, trying to examine him frantically.

“AIDS,” he answered quietly.

You held each other tight. The next week blurred together. He was young. He couldn’t die. You had a lifetime to spend with him. He wasn’t _allowed_ to die. You were never angry with him, though you felt the need to be.

You looked into the disease. No known cure. You were sure in years time, this disease would be as easily curable as the common cold. It was Octavius all over again.

You spent every moment you could with him. One evening, the two of you sat on the couch, not doing anything. The television was not on, and neither of you had a book. Freddie was leaned against you, his head on your shoulder. Your arm was around his shoulders, playing gently with his hair.

“You have awful luck with lovers,” Freddie said out of nowhere, his voice scratching. “Maybe it’s payback for all that other good luck you have.”

“I would give it all up to spend the rest of my life with you,” you said quietly, not facing him.

“I know,” was all he replied. You kissed the top of his head. He took your hand off the top of his head, and kissed the knuckles.

“What was that for?”

“Kissing hands is representative of respect and loyalty,” he answered, shuffling to be closer to you. You thought about it for a moment, before taking his hand, kissing the palm sweetly.

“That one means vulnerability and tenderness,” he informed you, chuckling a bit.

“Do you know the meaning of every kiss?” You laughed, letting him have his hand back.

“Only your kisses.”

“You old romantic,” you sighed.

“You’re older.”

“Shut up.”

“… I love you,” Freddie said quietly.

“I love you too.”

Three years passed. Freddie got weaker, as if his aging was increased tenfold. Another year passed, you helped him with day to day tasks. You did most everything you could for him, easing his pain, obeying his requests, being at his beck and call. His most common request was a kiss, or a hug. He hardly asked for anything else, but you supplied his necessities anyways.

He died November 24, 1991. The night stars no longer shone in the sky.

You attended his funeral.

You were not known for outbursts of anger, and Roger knew this, but he didn’t say a thing when you yelled at a person for taking photos, before falling to your knees, sobbing. John helped you up, and the two of you later cried together in private.

Headlines later pronounced you to be a naturally angry man, who creeped on Freddie his entire life. Roger, Brian, and John attempted to keep you from seeing this headline, but you caught it anyway. It didn’t bother you very much. There was one problem though: you were now known. You were in the history books, someone who knew the great Freddie Mercury. People would recognize you in the street, and start asking questions, start wondering why you looked the same as you did twenty years ago, or fifty years ago. It made you come to a sad conclusion.

“I can’t stay. Because of my inability to age. I hope you understand,” you told the three boys. They were saddened of course, but at least you would not die. You told them that if you could, you might visit every now and then. They seemed to feel better after that.

You disappeared into the countryside, unable to live off the land that was now blocked off. You ventured to the Land of Adelaide, and payed tribute to her. You wandered into Greece, visiting the rotten grave of Timon, and payed respect to both him and Octavius, who was not buried properly. The ring Freddie gave you, ornamented with opal design, stayed on no matter what.

You did keep good to your promise about twenty-two years later, in the fresh age of 2013, you knocked on John’s door.

You were met with an old man. He was quiet as he was before, bitter and sad, never having gotten over the death of the man who changed his life. He seemed to have controversial emotions over seeing you, and after inviting you in for tea, he expressed these emotions.

“I know… logically, that this is what you’re supposed to look like. I can’t stop flashing back to the past,” he said quietly, taking a sip of tea after.

“I look in the mirror and see ages past. I see every person I’ve loved. You are not alone in this pain,” you replied, hoping to ease some of his pain.

“It’s nice to see you anyway,” he mumbled.

“You as well.”

You visited Roger as well, who was apparently married to a new woman. Luckily for you, she didn’t know you, so you could visit him in peace.

“It’s been _ages_! You promised to visit,” he berated you when he opened the door. Time had not been… friendly, with him. He looked nothing like he did, though he looked healthy.

“Nice to see you too, Roger,” you laughed.

“Let me call Brian. He’s just relaxing for the day, I’m sure he’d love to see you,” he said quickly, inviting you inside and heading straight for his phone. You stayed at the front door, observing the inside of the house before Roger returned. He invited you for dinner with him and Brian, which you gratefully accepted. Brian had a similar reaction upon seeing you, but was definitely more vocally happy at your return. He, like John, was now an old man.

During dinner they explained to you what happened to John, and what they had been doing for the past few years. Mostly tributes to Freddie, which you appreciated. It made you feel a little bad that you hadn’t been able to be there. They asked you if you had a phone, which you replied with ‘no, I haven’t gotten one yet.’They implored you to get one, in case they needed to contact you.

You did just so, returning to Brian’s place to give him your new phone number. You kept in contact with them every now and then, with them mostly sending jokes to you, and you sending photos of yourself at different locations you were visiting, called ‘selfies.’

In September of 2017, the both of them separately sent rather long messages to you explaining that they had written and officially cast a movie, and that filming was to start. Thinking it to be funny, you replied with ‘k.’ They proceeded to invite you to watch the filming.

 _Ah_ , you thought to yourself, and easily snuck onto a plane back into England, where some of the first test runs were to take place. They met you at the airport, taking you to a studio where some test runs were to be done for Live Aid. You thought it ambitious, filming the largest event on the first day, but you admired the tenacity.

“Do you think I should meet the actors? After all, they probably know my face,” you told them, sitting in a large car on the way to the studio.

“Oh more than that, there’s one of them playing you,” Roger said, brushing off the situation as if it were normal.

“So in order to meet any of the actors, I would have to come out with my, uh, secret?”

“Shouldn’t be worse than coming out as gay. Just the problem that a lot of people won’t believe you,” Brian shrugged.

“I’ll need a knife to prove it,” you sighed, thinking back to when you first got stabbed, which was done by yourself.

“I have a swiss army knife?” Roger suggested, taking it out of his back pocket.

“Rog, why in the hell do you carry that thing around?”

“It’s got a corkscrew!”

You took the knife from him, thinking it would have to suffice.

Apparently stabbing yourself in front of people you’ve just met, while bearing a striking resemblance to someone who should be dead is not a good way to say hello. A quick rundown on how the meeting went goes; you were taken into the studio by Roger and Brian, who took you into the dressing room. Four men, already in their costumes and bearing faces quite like your old friends but younger, saw you. They approached you, the False Brian saying immediately, “Hey, you look like (Y/N). More so than our actor,” to which you responded with, “I’m immortal,” and proceeded to stab yourself.

Probably should’ve warned Brian and Roger about your plan, because they seemed pretty worried as you fell to the ground. Breathing heavily, you took it out, flopping onto your back.

“What in the _hell_ were you thinking?!” Roger yelled at you, helping you up.

“I asked you for the knife! What in the world did you think I was going to do with it?”

“I dunno, I thought your blood would be silver!’

“I’m not a bloody fucking unicorn!”

You raised your shirt, showing the unscarred, clean skin. The four actors seemed to believe you.

“It’s um, an honour to meet you,” the False Freddie said, moving forward to shake your hand. Your heart stopped, blinking a few times. False Freddie had blue eyes, but he wore the mustache you once saw, and sported large teeth that you assumed were fake. He spoke with an American accent.

“You look like him,” was all you could manage, shaking his hand limply.

“That’s the point,” he laughed. He sounded nothing like Freddie. “My name’s Rami. Malek,” he said.

“Gwilym Lee, but apparently they’re taking a habit of calling me Gwil,” False Brian said, shaking your hand as well. You’d gotten a semblance of yourself back, shaking his hand more firmly.

“Ben Hardy,” False Roger shook your hand. He was rather handsome, but overly muscular. You sighed a bit, thinking about how Roger probably cast himself with Ben purposefully.

“Joe Mazzello,” False John shook your hand. He had warm eyes, and soft hands. Physically, he wasn’t at all like Freddie, which was probably why he wasn’t cast as him, but he was soft. Friendly, and happy. You cleared your throat, trying to gather your thoughts.

“Nice to meet you all, I’m (Y/N) if you didn’t yet realize,” you said, straightening your shirt.

“So, you’re immortal?” Ben asked, resting his hands on his hips. You nodded. “When were you born?”

“In the year you refer to as 957 BC, in Athens,” you answered. They balked, staring astounded at you. Real Roger and Brian did as well, and you remembered in an instant you’d never actually told them when you were born.

“I thought maybe the 1800’s or 1900’s!” Rami gasped, holding a hand on his chest dramatically.

“No, that’s when I was stuck in a well,” you said factually, your voice not wavering. “That’s how I met Freddie. He got me out when he was ten.”

They continued asking questions. Mostly about how you survived, or how continued living and traveling without money. You told them about the cheap luck trick. Eventually (not long after your meeting) they were called to perform, and you watched as they performed rather good impressions of your young friends. The music was at first done by voice over, but soon they were correctly playing their instruments. It was a bit like watching a rehearsed version of Live Aid, which it basically was.

Afterwards, they rid themselves of their costumes, dressing in plain clothing that was appropriate for the time. Brian and Roger had long retired, so it was just the five of you left. You said your good byes as Ben left, and as Rami and Gwilym left. Joe was having a hell of a time with his wig.

“Really wish those costume-makeup people would stick around longer,” he grunted, wincing in pain as he tried to forcefully pull the hair off his head. You watched from the corner of the room.

“Would you like some help?” You asked quietly. He turned to you, reluctantly nodding.

Hefting yourself up from your lax position, you walked over, kneeling in front of him. Gingerly, you set your hands on the edge of the hairline, slowly pulling it back till you found the hair clips holding it in place. He watched you the entire time, your face contorted in concentration as you slowly took away the clips, and fully took the wig off. Deciding to help a little further, you took the clips holding his hair down, setting them on the counter.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, still watching you, his eyes trailing your movements.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, finishing with the clips.

“I have a um, question, if you don’t mind?”

You nodded.

“Does your idea of beauty change with the times? Or will you always find your original idea of beauty to be the most beautiful?”

That was a complicated question that you weren’t really expecting. You sighed, kneeling a bit more so you were comfortable.

“I can find new things beautiful, but I will always find my original idea of it to be beautiful. It doesn’t go away. New things are simply introduced,” you answered, attempting to explain the emotions you felt around love and beauty. “Freddie was my original idea of beauty. Others are new ideas of beauty.”

He seemed to understand. After you had put his wig away properly, and made his hair so it looked half normal again, he invited you to the hotel he was staying at.

“You don’t have a house?” You asked, watching as the card allowed him entrance to the room.

“I do, but it’s in America,” he laughed, opening the door for you to enter. It was clean, white, and modern. Something that many hotels recently were.

“Do you pay for this hotel, or is it payed for?”

“Uh, payed for. Luckily,” he answered, locking the door once more. He sat on the bed, turning the rather large television on. It glowed in the darkened room, being the only light source besides city lights and a bedside lamp. Carefully, you sat next to him, watching an episode of some funny show. Sometime in the middle of the show, during commercials, he asked if you wanted anything to drink. You said no, relaying that they don’t make wine like they used to (whether that was good or bad, you never got used to it) and you weren’t especially thirsty for water. He laughed, getting a water bottle for himself before rejoining you on the bedsheets.

“Thank you for inviting me over. It’s been nice getting to know you, but I don’t want to disturb you too much-“

“It’s not a problem,” he said. You still got up though, straightening your shirt out. He grabbed your wrist.

“Please stay,” he said, his voice perfectly mimicking the slight desperation, overflowing desire and apprehension that Freddie had all those years ago. You felt your heart crumbling into the swell of your stomach.

“Do you have a reason for me to stay?” You repeated your own words, voice weak and cracking. You could feel your hand trembling beneath his touch, and he must’ve noticed as well. He continued looking at your eyes anyway, staring with a sort of sadness etched into his face. You weren’t prepared to settle down and grow old again.

“Nothing logical, but life is hardly logical, is it?” He replied, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly. He was warm, needy, friendly. You swallowed thick.

“Hardly,” you replied, voice a whisper as you sat back down.

He was very different from Freddie. He held the same tenderness and core values as all your previous partners, but he spent his time trying to make you laugh. Freddie had spent his time wooing you, making and buying you things that were considered of the utmost romantic atmosphere. Joe didn’t spend too much time on romantic gestures - you noticed that when you tried to do grand romantic things for him, he blushed and shied away. You realized soon after this attempt that him making you laugh, or attempting to, was his way of saying ‘I love you,’ without ever saying it. You could respect that.

He was far more ashamed of loving you than anyone else had ever been. You spent nights of intimacy together, you telling tales of all the places you had seen, the times you’d lived in. He spoke of his family, his home and how he grew up. You touched him far more than you did anyone else at the time, holding his hand and touching his face. He introduced you as his friend. It shouldn’t have bothered you, but it did, and you chalked it up to the fact that your time with him was limited, and you didn’t have time to diddle around what was obviously there.

You pulled him into his hotel room one night, deciding that you’d had enough.

“You show me deep love when we are alone, and call me friend around others,” you said, pinning him against the wall. Your old speech began slipping out in your flurry of emotions. “What is it about this life, what is it about _me_ that makes you so ashamed to love me?”

He looked a little scared, or maybe it was excitement. His eyes were wide, pupils blown wide, and his mouth hung open just slightly.

“I love you and I am not ashamed to pronounce it so. For all my life I have kept same sex love a secret, as if it were shameful, a _sin_ so disgusting it couldn’t be discussed in daylight. You do not have to do that. Love between men is not only allowed, but marriage is legal. You have nothing to worry about on that side of things, so what holds you back?”

“You’re… immortal. I thought it’d be weird! I thought you wouldn’t,” he stopped, eyes frantically searching for something within your expression. “I thought you wouldn’t love me back after being hurt so much,” he finished quietly, his voice cracking a bit.

“I am never afraid to love,” you said, matching his volume. Your eyes burned into him, hoping with staggering intensity that he would trust you, that he would for once be true to his emotions.

He pulled you into him, kissing you with a fervor and delight you had yet to feel so intensely. One of his hands rested on your cheek, guiding your lips, the other on your waist, directing your legs. He moved against your lips, his tongue slipping out and strengthening the intimacy you craved so deeply. Moving you both to the bed, still unseparated, he sat down with you, kissing you continuously for a good twenty minutes before finally stopping.

“Passionate,” you commented, out of breath when he finished.

“Not a problem, right?”

“Never,” you said, kissing him once more.

He died like all the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> 1* - Word for tavern in ancient Greece  
> 2* - old Irish slang for someone who intervenes in other peoples business  
> 3* - Origin word for decades
> 
> Let me know if you liked this or if you want me to continue it! If literally one person comments continue this I'll probably end up writing it until you enter the Star Trek universe. Thanks for reading this far!


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